Weightless
by mooncroww
Summary: Dean must get Sam out of the woods before a whole host of nasty creatures catch up to them.
1. Boots and the Troll

A/N The other day while browsing around Deviantart I found a picture called Weightless by Madartiste. After asking for permission, I started this story. It should have a fairy tale kind of feel. Every chapter is named after a real fairy tale, though the content of said chapter may not reflect the content of the fairy tale for which it is named. I hope that wasn't too confusing.

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

Chapter 1

Boots and The Troll

"Shoot it!" Dean shouted, boots sliding erratically as he scrambled backwards over the muddy ground.

The thing was close, so close he could smell its fetid breath and see the bits of half-chewed flesh hanging from its razor sharp teeth. Behind it, Sam struggled with the flare gun, his right arm covered in blood and swelling rapidly.

"Sam! Shoot it!" Dean called again, hands slipping on a patch of wet grass.

"I'm trying."

Gasping as he backed roughly into a tree trunk, Dean could only watch as the creature grew closer, peering about wildly with its pale, blind eyes. When drawn out of its cave, the troll relied on its sense of smell to find prey, unless, that is, the prey happened to be sitting in a mud puddle three feet from its jaws.

"Sam!"

Pressing himself hard against the jagged bark of the tree, Dean tried to get up, thinking that maybe if he got to his feet, he could run, but the mud sucked at his shoes, holding his legs in place.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light and the creature howled, skidding in the muck and flinging its ponderous weight against the jagged rock face. Sam stood, white-faced, at the entrance to the cave, flare gun dangling in his left hand. The earth seemed to shake apart and a growl echoed around them. Sam's eyes grew wide as he realized, too late, what was happening. As the stones came crashing down, he dove away, flinging his good arm over his head. Between the flying dirt, the stinking black blood from the troll and the rocks kicking up dust, Dean lost sight of his brother.

The troll's thrashing movements slowed as the life ebbed from its body; thick, dark gore mixing with the rain water. Only when it lay perfectly still, flesh turning from mottled brown to a sickly grey, did Dean dare to struggle to his feet.

"Sammy?" he called, coughing.

Wrenching himself free, he stumbled into the mess, nearly tripping over one monstrous leg. Blinking at the dust in his eyes, Dean realized the thing had turned to stone, just as the legend said. Some of it crumbled when he nudged the limb with his toe.

"Guess you won't be eating any more hikers," he snickered and moved on, eyes searching the rubble for Sam.

"Sammy?"

A soft groan reached him and he hurried forward. They'd been hiking for two days now and Dean was sick of everything. The food was barely edible, his sleeping bag itched and somehow every plant he touched was poison ivy. The quicker he got Sam back on his feet, the quicker they could get out of here and back to civilization.

"Sam? You okay?"

There was no answer, but the air began to clear, revealing the jagged outline of the cave-in. Rubble spilled from the fissure, covering the ground with a waist-high layer of boulders and thick, grey powder. Standing very still, Dean waited, listening for anything that might tell him where his brother was. The last muted rumbles of the crash shook the ground, followed by a few pebbles skittering down the rock face.

Panic rose in his chest. What if Sam was buried under all that mess? He'd never find him. Never be able to dig him out.

"Sammy! You answer me!"

Something moved. Just a slight shift in the air to his left. Peering through the gloom, he could just see Sam's brown hair, thick with filth, blowing in the breeze.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," he muttered, jogging to his brother's side. "Oh … oh, God."

The younger man lay on his back, arms twisted awkwardly at his sides, face bloodied from numerous cuts and scrapes. That was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the pile of rocks covering his legs.

"Sammy! Sam. Wake up!" Dean demanded, shaking him roughly.

"Dean," Sam groaned, opening his eyes a little.

"Hey. Hey. C'mon. Wake up."

"What happened?" he asked, softly.

"You … you're gonna be fine. We'll get you outta here in no time. You just hang on."

"I can't move my legs."

Swallowing hard, Dean lied, "That's nothing. I'll get you straightened out."

"My arm hurts."

Frowning, the older man took Sam's right hand and gently rolled the tattered sleeve up, exposing three small cuts to the forearm. They oozed a little when he pressed on the swollen flesh surrounding them. _Infected_, he thought. They were infected.

"Poison, I think," Sam muttered, trying to focus.

"Poison?"

"Thing … scratched me. Poison under its claws."

"Fuck." That word seemed to sum up their situation nicely.

"I still can't move my legs."

Teeth chewing hard at his lower lip, Dean sorted through everything he knew about first aide. The cuts and scrapes would be easily dealt with, but that arm … he'd need medicine. Maybe a tourniquet would keep the poison from spreading, like with a snakebite. Quickly, he unbuckled his belt and took it off, wrapping it tightly just above Sam's elbow, pausing only to poke a hole in the leather with his pocket knife. His brother's eyes rolled wildly, but he remained conscious though the procedure.

"What …?"

"Keep the poison from spreading," he explained, slipping off his coat. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

Sam nodded, "I … I think so."

So, his back wasn't broken. That was something. Very carefully, he lifted Sam's shoulders off the ground and wrapped the coat around them, zipping it as much as he could. That would keep him warm during the hours it would take Dean to clear the rocks from his legs and, hopefully, be enough to keep him from going into shock. The man's teeth were already chattering. There wasn't a lot of time.

"Hey." He tapped Sam's cheek with his fingers, "Hey. Stay awake. Sing a song or something."

"What?"

Rolling up his own sleeves, Dean got to his feet, eyeing the rocks, trying to find a good starting point. "Sing a song. Tell me a story. Something. Just keep talking. If you go to sleep… I might not … you might not …"

"Right."

Silence followed.

"I don't hear any singing."

"Sorry. What … what song?"

"Anything … just pick one."

"Okay." Another moment passed and then, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Was a good friend of mine. I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine."

Smiling grimly, Dean went to work, only half listening to his brother's ragged singing.

The rocks were sharp and they cut Dean's hands as he struggled to move them. His gloves were back at camp, a fifteen minute walk, and there wasn't time to get them. Instead, Dean ripped two long strips off the bottom of his white t-shirt and wrapped them around his palms. A few of the stones were too heavy to lift, these he shoved to the side, trying not to notice how each shifting stone made his brother cry out.

"Keep singing," he growled, pausing to take a few deep breaths.

"Dean…"

"Keep singing."

"I'm picking up good vibrations, she's giving me excitations …" Sam's voice was hoarse, but he did as his older brother asked.

Satisfied, Dean went back to work.

Another hour passed and Sam was halfway through his second round of Take Me Out To The Ball Game, when Dean sifted through the last of the debris, finally freeing the other man's legs. Wiping sweat out of his eyes, Dean grabbed Sam under his arms and pulled him out of the wreckage. The injured man blinked back tears and lay very still as Dean inspected his lower extremities.

The right leg was bruised but otherwise, uninjured. The left one, however, was severely swollen and discolored below the knee. Even pulling up the tattered pant leg caused Sam intense pain.

"Fuck," Dean said under his breath.

"What? S'it broken?" Sam slurred, eyes glazed.

"Yeah."

"Splint."

"I don't think I can move you if I splint it."

"I … I walk …"

"You sure?"

"We … try."

Sam's ashen face and constant shaking did not inspire confidence, but Dean wasn't looking forward to carrying his brother the entire way back to camp. They had to try. Carefully, he helped Sam into a sitting position and, hooking his good arm around his shoulders, together, they struggled to their feet. With a soft gasp, Sam fell heavily against Dean, apologizing in increasingly garbled words.

"You know," Dean said, taking most of his brother's weight, "This is a lot like when you were little."

"Huh …" Sam managed as he took an experimental step forward.

"Dad was away and I was taking care of you … You couldn't have been more than ten months old and you kept trying to walk. You could pull yourself up okay and even stand alone, but every time you tried to walk, you'd just fall right back down. Sometimes I caught you and sometimes you hit your head or your nose …"

The broken leg dragged on the ground, unable to bear any weight, and Sam whimpered as it bumped on tree roots and fallen branches.

"So, anyway, I took your hands and showed you how it was done. Do you remember what I used to say?"

"No."

"One step at a time, Sammy. Take it one step at a time."

"Don't … I don't … remember."

"Doesn't matter. You were little. Let's just take this one step at a time, okay?"

"Okay."


	2. Fairy Gifts

Chapter 2

Fairy Gifts

This was bad. Very bad.

Dean was doing his best not to panic as he lowered his limp brother onto the nearest sleeping bag. It wasn't dark yet, but by the time he washed and bandaged Sam's wounds and packed up their things, it would be far too late to start the long hike back to civilization. Again, he tried to remember his father's lessons in first aide.

When possible, always disinfect the wound.

With aching arms, Dean grabbed his backpack and dug out a small flask.

"No," Sam whispered, eyes barely open.

"What?"

"I packed Neosporin."

"What?"

"Front pocket. My pack."

Heaving a sigh, Dean took a sip from the flask and shoved it in his back pocket. The Neosporin was right where Sam had said. He pulled back the sleeve on Sam's right arm and inspected the scratches again. Obviously, the tourniquet wasn't working, or had been applied to late. Either way, Sam looked terrible. His face was pasty white and slick with sweat, and his teeth chattered with cold, though his body burned with fever.

"I dunno Sam …" he muttered, slathering the discolored flesh with disinfectant.

"Water."

"Right."

Sam drank deeply from the bottle Dean held to his lips, letting the liquid slide down his chin and neck, drenching his shirt. Somewhat revived, he struggled to sit up and with a little help, finally lay with his back propped against a tree.

"S'bad, isn't it?" he smiled sleepily.

"Yeah. It's bad."

"Can't leave tonight."

"We can try."

"We'll get lost. I can't … I can't … use the compass in the dark."

"I thought you were a boy scout. Didn't they teach you about reading the stars and shit like that?"

"Three months, Dean. Didn't get that badge."

"Right. Well, we can't just stay here."

Sam shook his head, "Better here. We can leave … leave in the morning."

"Look, you're sick. You need a doctor." Even as he posed the argument, he knew Sam would win. His little brother had always been better at this sort of thing, camping, hiking, fishing. Whenever their father would start going on about compass directions and how to properly construct a leg splint, Dean had conveniently been elsewhere, while little Sam soaked up the information like a sponge.

"We need water."

"You still thirsty?"

"No. You have to wash it …" he gestured at his broken leg, flinching a little.

"We've got plenty of water, I'll just …"

Sam made a vague gesture of disagreement and shook his head, "That's drinking water. There's a … a creek close by…" He looked around, forcing his eyes to focus, "That way. I've got … I've got purification tablets in my bag."

"Right. How far that way?"

"Dunno. Not far."

Raking his teeth over his lower lip, Dean nodded and pulled an empty water bottle out of his bag, "I won't be long. Here," he pressed his pocket knife into Sam's shaking hand, "just in case."

"Right."

He sensed the thing before he saw it.

The forest was eerily quiet as he approached the little stream that had cut a steep sided path through the trees, even the babbling of the water seemed muted. Feeling the short hairs on the back of his neck prickle, Dean reached instinctively for the knife he kept in his pocket, cursing silently when he remembered leaving it with Sam. Clenching the water bottle tightly in his hand, he slid down the steep embankment, just managing to catch himself before he tumbled into the creek.

As he knelt to fill the bottle something changed in the air above him. Tensing, Dean looked up to find someone watching him from the opposite bank. He'd just opened his mouth to ask for help, when it occurred to him that this person wasn't a person at all.

"Dean Winchester," the thing whispered in a voice that sounded like dry leaves.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, realizing he was at a disadvantage

Its wide, thin-lipped mouth curved into what he assumed was a smile, "You killed the troll."

"Yeah." Sam had once said that these forest types respected honesty. It was worth a try.

"I owe you a great debt."

"What?"

"The creature murdered my wife and stole our daughter from her bed. Had you not cut him down, I would have done so myself." It knelt in the dirt and cocked its head to the side, large mud colored eyes blinking slowly, "This very day, I prepared to do battle, only when I arrived, you and your brother had already engaged the beast."

Dean sneered, "Thanks for all the help."

"I tried to save your brother."

"Did a great job with that."

"I was slow. I regret his current condition." Long vine-like hair fell over its face as it bowed its head. "I will help as best I can."

As a rule, the Winchester's didn't trust non-human creatures. There had been exceptions, through the years, but generally they didn't fraternize with the things they hunted. In his mind's eye, Dean saw Sam's pale, sweaty face and he knew this was one of those rare exceptions.

"Can you heal him?"

"No."

Frustrated, Dean growled, "Then what good are you?"

"You must leave this place. Soon. Your presence will not be tolerated for much longer. There are those in the forest who would kill you."

"How does that help me?"

"I can protect you until sunrise."

"And then?"

Long, bony fingers wove together, curving unnaturally with an extra joint, "You must go quickly and be gone by sundown."

Dean suddenly felt like he was negotiating; bargaining for his brother's life. "We can't make that trip in one day. No way. Took two days with Sam walking on his own. You gotta come up with something better than that."

A flush came over its green-brown flesh, "When the sun rises, take your brother and go. Rest only once, when the sun is at its highest. Do not look back and do not stop, no matter what you see or hear. If you can do this, I swear you will reach your destination by nightfall."

"And Sam?"

"I cannot help him, but if you do as I say, he may live."

"May?"

"Here." With one elongated hand, it removed a small green pouch hanging from its belt and tossed it down to Dean, who caught it easily, " Mix a pinch of this with his water and make him drink it. That should bring down the fever and lessen his pain."

"Just a pinch?" Dean asked, loosening the draw string and peering into the little bag. It was filled with tiny seeds.

"Anymore will do more harm than good. Now, hurry back to your brother, there are things in this wood that mean you both harm."

Frowning, Dean looked back up and said, "Thanks …" but the creature was gone.

Back at camp, it was obvious, even from a distance that there was trouble. Sam's back was ridged against the tree trunk and his knuckles were white as he gripped the pocket knife, as though he expected an attack at any moment. He seemed very relieved to see Dean approaching and managed a tight smile.

"There's something here, Dean," he said, voice harsh. "Something bad."

"Yeah … I know."

"You know?"

"Had a little run-in myself."

Sam's brown eyes widened with panic, "We can't stay the night here …"

"Let me worry about that." Dean tried to sound reassuring, "I've got something that should make you feel better."

"What?"

"Look, I don't think we have anything to worry about tonight. One of those things is on our side and he gave me something to help with the pain."

Swallowing hard, his brother nodded, "You sure?"

It was a difficult question, because, in all honesty, he wasn't sure about anything. The creature could have been lying. The seeds in the little pouch could kill Sam outright. As soon as darkness fell, they could be over run by skinny tree men with big mouths and long fingers. The entire situation had every chance to end tragically, but sometimes, and it killed him to admit it, you had to have a little faith.

"Yeah. I'm sure." His hands shook a little as he opened the little green bag and added just a few tiny seeds to Sam's water. They dissolved when he shook the bottle. "Drink that. A few mouthfuls, at least."

Reluctantly, Sam did as he was told, "You should …" he bit his lip hard, then, "you should take care of my leg."

Setting his jaw, Dean nodded.

Once, when Sam was about twelve years old, he'd caught a bad flu. Their dad was gone, leaving Dean to care for his younger brother, alone. His fever was nearing 104 degrees and he'd been vomiting for at least ten hours straight. It was clear that he needed a doctor, but they had no insurance and the hospital would be obligated to call social services when they were unable to reach John. So, Dean made his brother a bed on the bathroom floor and forced him to sip at a bottle of Gatorade, despairing when Sam threw up even that small amount of liquid.

As a last resort, he'd called Bobby, who promised to be there as soon as he could. In the mean time, in an effort to reduce the fever, Dean was to run a cool bath and make Sam soak in it. If that didn't work, he needed to add a few buckets of ice to the water; anything to keep his temperature low.

Bobby was as good as his word, arriving the next afternoon, but Dean would never forget that horrible night. Sam's pale face peering at him from under a pile of blankets, sweat glistening on his upper lip, eyes blood shot. He hadn't even been able to cry. Fearing Sam might stop breathing while he slept, Dean lay on the bed beside him, one hand on his chest counting every heart beat. When the fever finally broke, Sam's little hand had curled into his and they both fell into an exhausted sleep.

Now, laying on his sleeping bag, listening to his brother's labored breathing, Dean decided that this situation, wasn't so far removed from that time when Sam was young. The real difference was that, out here, there was no help coming, no one he could call for advice, not even a tub of cool water or bucket of ice. They were on their own. He tried not to think about it too hard. Sam needed him to be clear-thinking and level-headed; needed him to be strong, but he was just so damned tired.

"Sleep," a soft voice whispered from nearby.

"Can't," he answered, without thinking.

"I have the watch. Sleep," it promised.

Muscles aching from the long day, Dean rolled to his side and put a calloused hand on his brother's chest, letting the steady beat of the younger man's heart lull him to sleep.

"Don't you stop breathing," he whispered, as darkness took him.

Dean woke before the sun. In the dim predawn light, he gathered together the few things they would need for the long walk back to the car. Hurriedly, he dumped one of the backpacks and refilled it with drinking water and the little food they had with them. The Neosporin and purification tablets also went into the bag, along with their extra clothes and the little pouch of seeds. The rest of the camping equipment would have to stay behind. It was a waste, but there was simply no way he could carry it all and Sam. The light was growing brighter as Dean shook his brother awake, noting the way his eyes dilated and the grey color of his skin.

"Hey. We gotta get going."

Sam blinked slowly, but nodded.

"Sun's not up," he observed, shivering a little in the dewy chill.

"It's a long trip. You hungry?"

"No. Thirsty."

"Do you want more of that stuff? Did it help?"

"Helped me sleep, but … no. Just water."

After watching Sam drink a little water and making sure he didn't throw it up, Dean hefted the backpack onto his shoulders.

"We'll start off like before. When you get tired, we'll figure something else out."

"Okay."

Working together, they got Sam to his feet, leaning most of his weight on Dean.


	3. The Ill Fated Princess

Chapter 3

The Ill-Fated Princess

Dean chose each footstep with care. He'd stumbled twice now, boots sliding over the wet, uneven ground, barely managing to keep Sam from tumbling into the prickly underbrush. To his credit, Sam never complained, simply kept his attention focused on the task at hand, forcing his legs to move, even though each shift of weight was obviously excruciating. Their progress was frustratingly slow, and Dean wrestled with the urge to push forward, dragging his brother out of this damned forest and back to the real world, where there were doctors and hospitals and trees were just trees, not these tall, creepy things with knotted eyes and twigs for fingers.

That last was a bit of an exaggeration. Though, it didn't take a lot of imagination to picture those long branches reaching down for them, wrapping tight around him and his brother, slowly squeezing the life out of them. With each creak, a shiver went up Dean's spine.

"Trees …" Sam breathed, face pale and sweaty. The fever was getting worse, burning its way through his body. Dean could feel the heat of it as he leaned in to hear what his brother had to say.

"What?"

"Trees … watching."

"That's crazy talk."

Sam shook his head, cringing as he dragged his bad leg over a rough patch, pant leg catching on a fallen branch, "Not crazy. Saw them …"

"That's the fever talking, making you see shit that isn't there. Keep walking."

Reluctantly, the younger man nodded, "Maybe."

Glancing up into the canopy of trees, Dean clenched his jaw and tightened his hold on Sam's shoulders, "Hey, you remember those stories you used to tell me?"

"Stories?"

"Yeah, you were always making stuff up."

"Like what?"

"Just stupid stuff. Once … once you were holding my hand and we were following dad through this big field. You thought we were hunting for rabbits or something, you couldn't have been more'n four or five. But, you kept jumping over stuff. Logs and puddles and clumps of grass. I told you to stop, but you kept doing it and every time you'd jump you look at me and say 'I'm going to the moon this time' and then you'd just land back on the ground."

In spite of everything, Sam smiled, "Yeah."

Above them, the trees creaked menacingly and Dean was sure one of them leaned closer as they limped past, "You got tired of jumping, I guess, and Dad was pretty far ahead of us, so you started telling me what it was like on the moon. I spent an hour listening to how you built a house and lived there and made friends with the moon-kids who lived under the ground."

"Was … I was a kid …"

"I know. I was, too."

"Dean … you hear that?"

Of course he heard it, the crashing of something large pushing through the underbrush was difficult to miss even with his heart beating so loud in his ears, but Dean remembered the creature's words from the day before, and kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

"Didn't hear anything."

Sam panted harshly, tightening his arm around Dean's shoulders, fingers fisting in Dean's shirt as he tried to keep his balance, "Something's coming. Go faster."

"Hold still."

The thing was getting closer, coming up from the left with scrambling steps and heavy, crazed breathing that echoed around them. Sam's face paled further, if that was even possible, and he clung to his brother, fear showing clearly on his face.

"You should leave me. Just run, Dean," he gasped.

"Shut up and keep walking. Ignore it."

"But …"

"Keep walking." Dean growled.

Of all the things that could have come bursting out of the thorn bush a few yards ahead of them, the last thing they expected was a girl. The wicked little thorns dug deep into the fabric of her blue parka, halting her progress with a sharp jerk that sent her sprawling backwards, half-suspended a few inches off the ground. Long blonde hair hung in tangles, sticking wetly to the sweat and blood that covered her face. Desperately, her fingers worked at the fabric of her coat, pulling out one thorn only to have another replace it.

Completely caught off guard, Dean almost stopped to help her, only catching himself at the last second. Setting his jaw, he kept Sam moving, tugging him onward.

"Help!" the girl cried when she saw them, brilliant blue eyes wide and pleading.

"Sorry," he muttered, looking away.

"Dean … she's hurt," Sam whispered.

"Yeah. So're you. Besides, she's not human."

Tears poured down her cheeks, "Please. Please, it's coming for me. You have to help." Even weeping, her voice was lovely, soft and breathy. The kind of voice Dean thought every beautiful woman should have.

"Dean," his brother's voice was thick with frustration.

Turning his head a little, Dean said in a hushed voice, "She's not human. Don't even look at her. Just keep walking. We've go t to be out of these woods by tonight."

"But …" Sam glanced at the woman thrashing in the brush, "what if she's telling the truth?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Help me! If you hurry we can get away. Please."

"She's not." He sounded more certain than he felt. As they slowly limped past her flailing form, Dean couldn't not see her scratched face peering up at him or the ragged state of her clothing. Any other time, he'd have been kneeling there in the dirt and mud, ripping her free of the branches and barbs, but he couldn't risk it now, not with Sam injured and sick, not with a whole forest full of nasty creatures chasing after them.

"Damn it." She was sobbing now, clawing at thick tangle of branches that held her in place, "Please. It's going to kill me. It … it already killed the others … help me, please."

"Just keep going," Dean growled, edging past her.

"Dean …"

"Keep going."

"We have to stop …"

"No. She's not human. It's not real."

"Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me. It's coming. Please."

In the distance there was a strange growling roar that sent the woman into a hysterical fit of wild thrashing and high-pitched screaming. Her kicking legs shook the bush and only served to tangle her further in the thorn covered branches.

"How do you know … what if …" Sam was gasping, leveraging himself up to look over his shoulder.

"She can't be human. She can't be."

The growling grew closer and Dean tightened his arm around Sam's waist, half lifting him, pressing onward at a somewhat faster clip. Whatever was coming sounded large and hungry. If this wasn't a trick, if the girl was a human – which she couldn't be – but if she was, their only hope was that the monster would be satisfied with her. Perhaps, with its belly full, it wouldn't bother with the easy prey of two men gimping through the forest at a snail's pace.

Her screams cut through his thoughts, spreading a cold feeling of guilt through his chest. It wasn't too late, some part of him thought, they could still turn around and wrench her free. They were hunters, after all; it was their job to save people. No. Dean couldn't risk it; couldn't risk his brother's life on something that was so obviously a trick. If he was wrong and Sam died, he'd never forgive himself. Even if he managed to crawl out of the forest alive and find help, Sam would still be gone and the blame would be his.

"Don't listen, Sammy. Just keep walking and don't listen."

Once, when they were kids, Sam couldn't have been more than nine, their dad had taken them out shooting. The youngest Winchester had never liked guns, hated handling them, hated cleaning them, hated even having them close to him. It was an aversion that Dean didn't understand; holding a weapon had been second nature to him, but still, he felt for his little brother. John put the gun in Sam's hands and told him to try and hit the cans lined up on the fence. He only missed one, but even John's words of praise couldn't wipe the disturbed look off Sam's face.

When the cans were gone, the three of them had trekked off into the field in search of rabbits or squirrels. Sam trudged along, not really looking for animals, but trying to pretend he was. Their father noticed this through narrowed eyes, but said nothing, choosing instead to point out a rabbit nibbling on some grass a few yards away.

"Kill it, Sam," John had said, pointing.

"Dad."

"Shoot it. I know you don't want to. Do it anyway."

Reluctantly, Sam had put the gun to his shoulder, taking careful aim, just as he'd been taught. Dean jumped when the gun finally went off. The rabbit lay on the ground, squirming in pain from the wound to its back side.

"I told you to kill it."

"I tried." Sam was lying. He'd been trying to miss, Dean could tell.

With a heavy sigh, John had gone forward, sliding the hunting knife out of his back pocket. The little animal screamed as he picked it up.

"Don't listen, Sammy," Dean had whispered, covering his brother's ears. "Block it out. Don't listen."

Sam didn't cry when their father ended the rabbit's suffering; he didn't cry when he was told to carry the furry little carcass back to the truck, or when John skinned it and cooked it over their little camp fire that night. It wasn't until night fell and they lay in their sleeping bags that Dean heard his brothers quiet sobs. Neither of them said anything, but they both knew. Sam never missed a shot after that.

"Dean …" Sam said, close to his ear, wincing as the toe of his boot dragged across the ground, "we have to help her."

"No. Block it out. Don't listen."

Behind them the creatures rumbling howl shook the trees and the girl screamed again, high and shrill and very, very real.

"Just keep walking. Don't listen." He repeated, staring straight ahead.

The first wet crunch of bone and sinew was masked only by the screeching of the girl. Something warm sprayed against their backs and Sam flinched, trying to look back.

"No. Just keep going."

"But …"

"Sam. Walk."

Dismally, the younger man nodded, tears shining in his fever shadowed eyes. The thick, pleased, purring of the creature as it ate followed them for hours. Each pop of a bone coming out of the socket, every slick, ripping of flesh, the final gurgle of a bloody breath as the girl died, they would stay with Dean forever, replaying in his mind every night for the rest of his life.

"She wasn't real," he whispered, more to himself than his brother.

"I know," Sam answered anyway.

"We can't stop. We won't make it out if we stop."

"I know."

"We gotta get out, Sammy. I hate this place."

"Me, too."

Whether it was real or not, the creature didn't follow them. Maybe it was content with its current meal or maybe it was just a figment of their imaginations, but it stayed where it was and they slowly moved further and further away.


	4. The False Prince and the True

Chapter 4

The False Prince and The True

Sam's head lolled to the side, his dirty brown hair brushed Dean's cheek and fell limply into his eyes. Judging by the sun, the younger man had been edging on unconsciousness for nearly an hour. The heat of the fever seemed to roll off his body in waves that burned Dean's skin even through his thick jacket. Sam's feet were dragging the ground, sliding into one another, the toe of one boot catching on the laces of the other. Dean had been supporting his brother's full weight for ten minutes, now, and his arm hurt like it might fall off.

He knew they shouldn't stop, that they had to keep going or risk never escaping this godforsaken forest, but his brother was sick and weighing him down. There was no possible way he could go on hauling Sam around like this, at least not in this position. Gritting his teeth, Dean made a decision and came to a full stop.

"Just for a minute," he whispered to the creature, hoping it was close enough to hear, "Just let me get Sam on my back."

Sam started to slip, almost falling to the ground, but Dean caught his arm and, calling on reserves of strength he didn't know he had, lifted Sam across his shoulders in a somewhat awkward version of the fireman's carry. After a moment, he'd settled Sam's weight just above their backpack of supplies.

"Guess you're not so little anymore, huh, little brother?" he muttered, stooping under the new burden.

Tentatively, he took a step and felt Sam's head bump softly against his side. There was nothing he could do about it now. They had to keep moving.

"Sorry if you're uncomfortable."

A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and Dean could have sworn he heard a voice whispering, "Go. Go now."

"We are."

Keeping his gaze focused straight ahead, he lined things up in his mind, drawing a mental map of their path, just as Sam had told him to do before they got themselves into this mess. It was easier to do with a compass, but Dean's hands were full and he wasn't sure he'd even be able to read the stupid thing anyway. That was Sam's job, or it had been.

_One foot in front of the other_, he told himself, _one step at a time_. They'd make it out of this, they had to.

"Dean…" The voice was familiar, but Dean ignored it. Since leaving that girl to die, he'd forced himself not to hear the sounds of the forest, this was no different.

"Dean … please … can't you hear me?"

"You aren't real."

With his brother on his back, he was unable to turn his head, but a glance to the side showed someone standing just beyond the nearest trees. Someone in a brown coat and bloody jeans. Someone bearing a startling resemblance to Sam.

"What the hell, Dean? I'm your brother. Of course, I'm fucking real." The person matched his slow pace, keeping just beyond his line of sight.

"Not real. Just in my head."

"I'm real, Dean. Just look at me. I'm Sam."

The Sam on his back, groaned softly as his head brushed a tree trunk. _Careful_, Dean thought angrily at himself, _be careful_. The last thing Sam needed was a concussion on top of everything else. _Just keep walking, one step at a time_.

"Dean! Look at me, Dean! I'm your brother, for God's sake. Can't you tell? Can't you see that what you're carrying isn't real?" The voice had a desperate quality that chilled him to the bone.

"No. You aren't real." If he said it enough, it would be true. It had to be true. He was carrying Sam. Sam was on his back, slowly dying from some unearthly fever, suffering from a severely broken leg, struggling for each breath. Dean's hands tightened on his brother's wrist and leg, digging his fingers in until he could feel Sam's quick pulse beating there. Whatever was out in that forest, it wasn't Sam.

"They switched in the night … that thing, it gave you those seeds, remember? Knocked me out completely. They switched. That's not me on your back."

From the corner of his eye, Dean could just make out the thing's form, limping painfully just a few yards away. Its hair was thick with grime and dark red blood stained its clothes. Sometimes, it paused to lean on a tree or gasp loudly for air.

"You aren't Sam. Sam couldn't walk."

There was a sob in its throat, "God, Dean, it fucking hurts. Just put that thing down and help me. Please. I'm gonna die out here if you don't help me."

Clenching his jaw, Dean focused on the familiar heart beat thrumming against the pads of his fingers. It was lying. It had to be lying.

"Go away," he growled, pushing on, making his feet obey him, despite how they ached.

"Dean … please. Help me." It sounded just like Sam. If he closed his eyes, Dean could see the downturned mouth, the shiny, sad eyes and the tell-tale tremble of his brother's lower lip. He wouldn't close his eyes, though, not now, he might lose the way, might stumble and fall, might find that all this was really happening and his brother was struggling to survive with a broken leg and a burning fever while he dragged a stranger through the forest.

"If you're really Sam, come closer." It was a gamble, tempting it like that.

"I can't. Not while you've got that thing on your back. Just drop it, Dean. Drop it and help me … I … I can't keep this up."

"No." He tried to sound certain, tried to make himself believe that it was a lie. He knew his brother, knew every inch of him, right down to the pale birthmark on his left hip bone. It was Sam that he'd shaken awake before the sun rose, the real Sam.

But, what if it wasn't? What if the man on his back wasn't a man at all? It would have been so easy for those monsters to steal his brother in the night. Dean had been so damned tired after moving all those rocks, nothing would have woken him up. Those seeds could have been a trick, something to lull Sam into unconsciousness, to keep him from screaming as they dragged him off into the night, replacing him with … with what?

"If you're Sam, what am I carrying?" He shouldn't be speaking to it at all.

"You can't see?"

"Just tell me."

"It's a rotting log. It's falling apart."

For a split second, Dean thought he could smell the sickly sweet scent of decay. It was gone before he could be sure it was there.

"No. You're not my brother. You aren't real." He pressed his lips together firmly and kept going, boots crunching over dried leaves and twigs.

"Please, Dean. I can't keep … I can't keep up. If you keep going … please …"

That same pulse kept beating against his fingertips, sure and steady, maybe a little fast, but still very real.

It was the same steady rhythm he'd felt that night when they were kids, scrambling through some dark back alley, trying to keep up with their father. Sam should never have gone on that hunt, he should have been at the motel, doing his homework or reading a book, something safe, but he'd insisted and Dean never could say no.

"You keep an eye on him, Dean," John said sternly, giving his sons a meaningful look.

"Yes, sir."

At fourteen, Sam hadn't had his growth spurt yet, the one that would send him shooting up three feet practically over night, and his short legs simply couldn't keep pace with Dean's. They lagged behind, Dean pausing to help Sam over a chain link fence, or through a pile of refuse, eventually they had no idea where they were or how far their father had gone.

"Will Dad come back for us?" Sam asked, glaring at the dingy brick walls of the alley, as though their current predicament could be blamed on an inanimate object.

"Yeah, c'mon. I think he went this way." Gripping Sam's hand tightly in his own, Dean led the way.

Neither of them saw the softly glowing eyes or heard the throaty growl of the creature until it was too late. It leapt from a nearby fire escape, sharp teeth shining the in the darkness. Dean fired his gun, only letting go of Sam's hand long enough to aim and pull the trigger, but he missed, the bullet ricocheting off the rusting fire escape with a shower of sparks. For a split second, the alley was illuminated dimly, the thing knocked Dean's shoulder, spinning him roughly, and in the fading light he saw it land on Sam, knocking his head on the concrete with a sickening crack.

Stunned, Dean stood in the darkness, blinking against the bright spots still lingering before his eyes.

"Sam? Sammy?" he called, stumbling forward.

The thing growled again, its claws clicking across the pavement. It was close. Then there was another noise, the thud of boots on cement, the familiar rasp of his father's breathing. A steady beam of light focused on Dean's face and he shut his eyes against it.

"Dean?" John said, moving the flashlight so it pointed at Sam's limp body.

"Dad … I'm sorry … I didn't see it …"

Breathing hard, the older man pointed at Sam, "Check his pulse and try to get him awake. You watch him until I get back." Shoving the flashlight into his son's hands, John took off into the night, determined to finish the hunt.

Dean knelt by his brother and with two fingers, found the pulse in his thin wrist. Sam's eyelids flickered, but he remained unconscious. Terrified, Dean sat there in the filth of that back alley, counting his brother's heart beats, hoping his father would return.

"Dean! Can't you see … you have to see …" the voice called again, frantic and full of tears.

Dean dragged his mind back to the present, "You aren't my brother."

"I'll show you …" it gasped.

Suddenly the scent of decay was overwhelming, clogging his nostrils, gagging his throat. He coughed against it, spitting into the dirt, scraping his teeth over his tongue, anything to get the taste out of his mouth. On his shoulders, Sam went ridged, limbs straightening, body contorting, stiffening, even the flesh under Dean's fingers became rough like tree bark. Stifling a shout of surprise, he barely managed to keep hold of his brother.

"You see? I'm here, Dean … you have to stop … please."

"No," he whispered, "You aren't Sam."

He pressed his fingers hard against what had been Sam's wrist, searching for the pulse he knew so well. It had to be there.

Minutes passed. There was nothing. Nothing at all. Just as he was giving up, something fluttered there. It came on slow at first, the gentle _thud-thud_ of a heart beat, but soon was strong and true, beating its familiar rhythm, pushing the blood through Sam's battered body.

They trudged on and the thing's voice grew faint, insisting to the end that he was making a mistake, that he'd reach the end and find nothing but a pile of rotting wood and leaves in place of his beloved brother. Eventually, the body on his back relaxed, taking on a much more human form, its head bumping lightly against Dean's side.

"We'll get out of here, Sammy. I swear it," he muttered, and meant every word.


End file.
